The scream

So, I stared at the empty screen without the slightest inkling of what to write about. The next thing I knew, I was screaming, first to the blank screen, then to my mirror image, then from the street corner and the rooftop, from the top of the Eiffel Tower and on to Kilimanjaro, higher and higher, and then back to the freaking screen. My letters of distress were all returned unanswered.

Eventually, I ran out of places to scream from. Then I started to write.

That was a good scream.

When words don’t come easy, I make do with silence and find something in nothing.
— Strider Marcus Jones, Poet